Humour, my condolences – A sad poem about an awful occurrence

I woke up one morning, feeling as you might as a human, quite dead.
It was a strange feeling, nothing seemed off, I seemed to be on the right side of my bed,
And yet I couldn’t shake that feeling, something felt wrong, something felt wet,
So, I forced myself to get up slowly, warning myself not to fret,
I squandered over to my bedroom door and slowly turned the handle,
Even as it turned I should have known, been prepared to light a candle.

As my coffee machine whirred to life, I slit an orange with my knife,
The roasted beans so suddenly juiceless, we squeezed too hard, it was quite ruthless,
The TV came on just short thereafter,
I gasped, I cried, I denied, and I lied, but laugh I could not,
The headline said it clear as can be, humour’s dead, humour’s been shot.

That funny feeling in my bones that morning, was the emptiness before the mourning.
Had someone warned me what was to come, I would have refused to move an inch,
And as I read the headline over and over again, I could have been punched and wouldn’t have flinched.
What was the point of it all anymore? Without humour the world is raw and sore.
So, I let my tears drop, and I’ll join them so soon,
Somewhere in the night out there, a comedian howled the last laugh for the moon.

By Marc Auf der Heyde